


Tumblr Mini-Fic #4: Shopping

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Tumblr Mini-Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Shopping, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a series of Johnlock mini-fics written for my Tumblr followers. Sherlock does a little shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumblr Mini-Fic #4: Shopping

**A gift for[acciopigfarts](http://acciopigfarts.tumblr.com), the 10,000th person to leave a note on [this post](http://berlynn-wohl.tumblr.com/post/30896795998/benedict-cumberbatch-what-the-fuck-is-this-need). Her request was: “John forces Sherlock into Christmas shopping.” Hope you enjoy, darling. _  
_**

                                           

On the reverse side of a receipt, John had written down a list of names. Now, pinching the receipt with both thumbs and forefingers, he tore it precisely in half. The name on the bottom of his half of the list was _Sherlock_ ; the name on the top of Sherlock’s half of the list was _John_.

“I don’t care where you go or how you get it done. But this year I’m not doing this on my own. You will buy presents for everyone on this list before you return to the flat. And no, that does not mean you rent another flat and live there instead. It means you return this evening with the shopping completed.”

Sherlock examined the list with contempt. “You are aware that goods and services are available for purchase on the internet…”

“Not since your last experiment exploded all over both our laptops and shorted them out.”

“Are you going to dwell on that all morning?”

“Do you understand how long those bloodstains are going to be on the walls? You could have at least embalmed the sheep first.”

“I needed a _fresh_ sheep.”

“Forget it. We’re not arguing about it again. Go. Shop. Now.” John pushed Sherlock towards the door.

“What about you?”

“I’m going on my own. I need a break from looking at your smug unrepentant face.” John gave him a final shove onto the stairs, then grabbed his coat from the hook and hurled it after him.

 

*** * * * ***

 

John returned from his own shopping to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, tapping away at a shiny new laptop.

“I sent you out to buy gifts for _other_ —”

“The kitchen, John.”

Peeking into the kitchen, John saw a variety of shopping bags piled on the table. “I hope you wiped the table down first,” he said, “else these presents are all going to smell of sheep…parts.” He approached the table with caution, as though he feared another detonation were imminent. (Though to be fair, with Sherlock in the flat, another detonation could always be considered “imminent.”)

Some of the bags looked quite posh; others astoundingly common. “Boots?” John opened the bag; inside was a bottle of iron supplements. John took it into the sitting room and held it up. “What sort of Christmas present is this?”

“Those are for Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said without looking up. “Her white nail beds and brittle hair indicate anemia.”

Looking in the next bag, John soon found that Sally’s present was, comparatively, thoughtful and affectionate. “This one’s got worming tablets in it,” he sighed.

“Those are for Molly.”

“You what?”

“She just took in her fourth stray, judging by the new tabby hairs on her trouser legs.”

“Ah. Well, be sure to tell her you figured that out before she opens it. Otherwise she might think you meant them for _her_.”

“Molly hasn’t had any significant parasitic infections in eleven months, so far as I’ve observed.”

“Oh, well that’s nice for her.”

The next bag on the table was plain and unmarked, but something about it said _money_. He opened it gingerly and found a liquor bottle inside. “Careful with that one,” Sherlock said, still not looking up. John removed the bottle from the bag and examined the label. “Balvenie,” he read. “Cask one ninety one.”

Sherlock said nothing. John pulled out his phone and did a quick search for the words he had just spoken.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Ten thousand pounds?!”

“That one cost me fifteen, actually. Some city boy at the auction seemed to think he wanted it more than me.”

“Who is this for?”

“Mycroft. It’s going to be the best practical joke I’ve ever played on him.”

“ _A fifteen thousand pound practical joke?_ ”

“When he unwraps this bottle on Christmas Day, he’ll assume I’ve tampered with it somehow. Me being the brat who doesn’t appreciate the value of anything, he’ll assume I opened it, dosed it with a laxative or something, and somehow resealed it.”

“But you’re…not going to do that?”

“Not at all. That’s the joke! He’ll have his boffins in the lab open it, analyse it, test it for everything I might possibly have infected it with, and thus use it up, ounce by ounce. Not to mention the less cautious among his team who might sneak a slug or two of it along the way, just for the opportunity to say they’d tasted the most famed and expensive scotch whiskey in the world. In the end, it will be concluded that the scotch had been completely unsullied, but by the time that is proven, it will have been almost entirely depleted. The waste will devastate him.”

Sherlock’s expression suggested that he was only waiting for his brilliant little plot to sink in so that John could begin appreciating how wonderful it was. When no appreciation appeared to be forthcoming, Sherlock returned his attention to his computer and said, “Don’t look in any of the other ones. Those are for you.”

“I see. So, this one from House of Harlot…?”

“Oh, not that one. That’s for research.”

John looked in the bag, then recoiled. “Please promise me that I am not going to be the subject of any research involving this item.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can’t do that, John. You get so upset when I break my promises.”

There were two bags remaining. John examined them in silence. One was from William Curley, naturally. Sherlock knew very well that John loved those Japanese black vinegar truffles, but would never spend his own money on something so decadent.

He found the other bag baffling, though. It was black, with _Taylor &Co_ in tiny gold script and a tuft of gold tissue paper erupting from the top. _Odd. What would Sherlock be doing buying me a present at Taylor_ , was all John thought. _I don’t wear any jewelery_.


End file.
